


Petite Mort

by KinFletcher



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:18:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KinFletcher/pseuds/KinFletcher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is the understudy of the principal dancer, Arthur Pendragon, in a ballet called "Petite Mort".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pretty Boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaiPrince13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaiPrince13/gifts).



> You can view Petite Mort here:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dpINpzvCS88  
> Merlin and Arthur's dance is the duet a minute or two in.

         

            “… Six, seven, eight. Plié… Good, Lance, nice and strong… and back… Very flexible, Merlin… hold it…”

            The muscles in my back contract with familiar pain. I am sure to hold my lower spine straight as I lean further, further into the stretch, until my airways tighten and I can see the line of dancers and their mirrors behind me, performing the same action—though perhaps not so deeply as I can. My ribs jut out under my tank top and my stomach pulls, until finally the instructor tells us to come up. We go through a series of slow exercises before he tells us to relax.

            “Take two minutes and shake it out or stretch whatever you need.”

            I let out a long breath, glancing shyly at the dancers around me. Most of them hold themselves with a distinctly dispassionate air, long necks and set jaws. Some chat freely with one another, including one loud group of older dancers in the corner. A few others are like me, looking around fearfully. I catch one small girl’s eye and smile at her, but she quickly turns away. Disappointed, I mimic her and turn back to the barre.

            I sigh, rubbing my eyes. Practice starts early at this conservatory. Outside the wall of windows, the sun is just peeking over the dizzying cityscape below. I draw my leg up to the bar and lean into a split, looking out at the sea of buildings, outlined by the brilliant red sunrise. It is wondrous in comparison to my country hometown, but it doesn’t feel like home yet.

            “God, look at him. ‘Very flexible.’ What a show-off…”

            The sudden loud whisper shakes me out of my reverie, and I turn to see the group in the corner. They quickly busy themselves with examining their posture in the mirror, and I realize that they have been staring at me. I take my leg down from the bar and it falls heavily at my side. It feels as though my bubble of excitement has been popped already.

            “Don’t mind that lot. They always gossip about newbies.”

            I start. The voice, a warm baritone, belongs to a dark, well-built dancer leaning against the barre beside me. He smiles benignly and reaches out his hand. I take it hesitantly and he shakes it with a powerful grip. He turns back and pulls at the barre to stretch his back. “Just don’t worry about them.”

            “Who are they?”

            “The ones whose families were rich enough that they didn’t have to come on a scholarship.”

            “Oh.” I glance back at them. Most of them are still pointedly ignoring me, but two of them are passionately making out. I feel almost disgusted except for the fact that the guy looks like a really good kisser. I regret not looking away, though, when they finally break and he shoots a glare at me which is so angry I almost gasp. I look down at my toes, bruised from footwork.

            Lance hits me in a manner he probably considers light. “Seriously, don’t let them get on your nerves. They’re probably jealous because people will get crushes on you, and then they won’t have all of the attention.”

            I flush and stare at him. “What?”

            He laughs, throwing his head back. “This is a small conservatory. When there’s a new dancer, they’re like fresh prey. There aren’t a whole lot of opportunities to date outside of the company since we’re so busy, you know. You’d better keep on your toes.”

            I laugh nervously. “I thought that everyone would already be paired off.”

            He shakes his head. “No, there’s too much drama. Everyone is always changing.”

            I look at him as he stretches his arms. He seems nice enough. “Er, are you..?”

            “No. My girlfriend broke up with me a few weeks ago to go after Arthur. Everyone knows that’s a lost cause, though.”

            “Oh. How come?”

            “He’s been dating Morgana, the prima ballerina, for months. Actually I think their _one year anniversary_ is next week.” He rolls his eyes and then nods over to the couple, who are just going in for another bout of kissing. “That’s them.”

            “Oh.” My stomach clenches as I watch them, and this time I turn away. It’s like I can feel Arthur’s eyes burning into the side of my head. Lance sighs. “He’s going to have a hard time getting over you. You’re too good of a dancer.”

            I open my mouth to respond, but the instructor claps his hands and soon I’m lost in a whirl of new combinations. As the sun is slowly covered by a blanket of steely clouds, I go across the floor again and again, relishing the wide-open space to fill with my body. I delight in watching all of the other dancers cross the polished wood with grace and precision. By the time the sky begins growing dark, I am thanking my lucky stars that I got into this company, however tired I am.

            The instructor stands in front of the door as we pull on clothes over our dance wear.

            “As I am sure you are all aware, _Petite Mort_ is coming up in only a few weeks.”

            He pauses to look at us. I pull my hoodie tighter around myself, shivering with sweat.

            “I will be assigning our new dancers as understudies for those of you who have been practicing since last season. I expect these students to know the dances _perfectly_ at least a week before the performance, so that we can run our understudy rehearsals without any slip-ups. This is a test to make sure that you can keep up the pace in our conservatory. Do I make myself clear?”

            Silence. My heart drops. No doubt we will have to learn our parts outside of normal practice time.

            “I said, _do I make myself clear_?”

            There is a general murmur of assent from the tired dancers.

            “Good. The list of assignments will be posted outside the door of this studio by six o’clock.”

            I check my watch. It’s five o’clock already. Instead of going back to my studio apartment, I find a bench in the hallway and pull the hood of my jacket down over my eyes, quickly slipping into a deep sleep.

            When I wake up, it is to the sound of excitement and the smell of dinner. My stomach growls to remind me that I haven’t had any. I look around groggily, pulling back my hood. A swath of students linger by the door, looking excitedly at a single sheet of paper taped to it. The main hallway is teeming with people talking about the assignments. I stand up slowly—I feel sore all over—and begin to shamble over to the door to look at the list before somebody grabs the back of my jacket. I yelp in surprise as I am spun around on the spot.

            “Hey, you little prick,” Arthur says. “You’re my understudy. That make you happy?”

            I look at him warily, careful to keep my expression blank. Up close, he is even more attractive than I realized.

            “What’s the matter?” he asks with a slight lilt in his voice. “I just wanted to congratulate you. I’m a principle dancer, so that means the instructor is impressed with you.”

            I smile a little, unable to hide my pleasure. Arthur smirks, steering me with a strong grip. As we round the corner, I suddenly find myself crashing into the wall as Arthur pushes me into it. My head collides painfully and sparks fly around the edges of my vision.

            “Listen, pretty boy,” he says in a low tone, pinning me against the wall. My heart leaps to my throat. Even though he is hardly taller than me, I shrink under his furious gaze. “Don’t get in my way.”

            Sharp pricks of numbness spread down to my fingers.

            “I know you think you’re so amazing just because everyone fawns over you, but you can’t fool me with that act. If you don’t step down, you’ll be taking spots that belong to better dancers than you.”

            I swallow, my throat growing painfully tight as he presses my head back.

            “Better watch your step, pretty boy,” he says, and glares at me. His hand clenches my hair, and I wince in pain. He looks me up and down and I find myself wishing that I had worn something more attractive than my plain hoodie and sweat pants, tucked into a pair of boots. His nose wrinkles. “Can you even lift a girl?” he asks, shaking his head, but before I can respond, his fist slams into my stomach. I fall to the floor, curling up there, and he is gone.

            


	2. Footwork

The days have passed in a blur of sore muscles and pent-up hormones. Two weeks until _Petite Mort_ will be on the stage. The conservatory has an air of tension over it at all times, the atmosphere growing colder to match the weather. I skip dinners to practice my understudy part. Arthur is always there, watching me closely. He barks out corrections and insults every once in a while and never tells me what I do well. Sometimes he shouts the wrong movement at me just to make me stumble. The dance is difficult to learn without a partner, but I would rather deal with it than with Morgana, so I learn her part as well. Before long, I am dragging myself through the days on four hours of sleep or less.

            During practices, Arthur sometimes lines up at the barre behind me, bumping me every so often with a degagé. The instructor eyes me as I quaver, trying to maintain my balance. Outside of practice, he reminds me every so often to be careful with a punch on the arm or a foot out trip in the hallway. I grit my teeth and never mind—he could probably cripple me if he really wanted to.

Aside from that alone, Lance was right about the drama. Despite the shyness of the newer ballerinas, some of the older ones descend on me like vultures around a rotting carcass. Some just eye me with looks that make me uncomfortable, but others are much more forward. Mostly, they are quite nice, so I feel bad to decline their invitations for dates in favor of being friends (which they never seem to care much for). A few days ago, the pencil graffiti scrawled on the bathroom wall read, “MERLIN IS A FAG”.

            I am miserable.

-

            Lance pulls me aside during our short break after warm-ups.

            “Hey Merlin, do you know what’s wrong with Arthur lately?”

            I look at him, bemused. “How should I know? He doesn’t talk to me except to tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

            Lance shakes his head. “Morgana said that he’s been acting really strange. I guess you really wouldn’t know, though.” He looks back to me. “How are you holding up?”

            “Oh, aside from the extra practice hours with Arthur watching me like a hound and everyone else treating me like I rolled around in horse shit, just fine, really.”

            Lance opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, a tall ballerina appears next to us. Her dark hair is pulled up into a tight bun. Morgana looks me up and down, just like Arthur did before, and just as he did, she wrinkles her nose. I keep my mouth closed but do not break her gaze.

            She turns her back to me to talk to Lance. “He’s not doing well practicing our duet.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “It’s like he knows the dance, but he doesn’t want to do it. Are you sure that he’s not sick?”

            Lance runs a hand through his hair. “You would know better than I would. Just because we live near each other doesn’t mean I spend much time with him. I’ve told you that before.”

            Morgana shakes her head, throwing me a last disdainful glance before striding away with her nose in the air.

            I sigh. “Where do you live, Lance?”

            He joins me, looking after Morgana. “It’s a little place next to those nice flats that Arthur lives in. They’re old but I don’t mind them.” He turns back to me. “You could come over sometime if you wanted. I can help you study for finals.”

            I stare at him. “Are you sure? Would that be okay?”

            He shrugs. “Sure, why not?”

            “You don’t care that I’m…?”

            “Come now, Merlin, not everybody in the world is a bigot. It’s better than that.”

            Two days later, I shoulder my backpack and make my way to Lance’s flat. Flakes of parched newspaper swirl in the autumn wind since there are no leaves around. As Lance said, his place is across the street from a set of nice-looking flats. It seems like the kind of place Arthur would live in.

            Just as I am about to cross the street, I hear somebody opening the gate to the flats. It’s Arthur. I watch him out of the corner of my eye, edging behind a phone box. He doesn’t look his usual self—his shoulders are hunched and his jaw is not set with its usual haughtiness. He is listening to music. I check my phone. I have time.

            Carefully, I step out from behind the box and catch the gate as it begins to swing closed. I tiptoe a safe distance behind Arthur, hiding near the stairs and watching to see which flat he goes into. It’s nice to be able to just watch him. He walks with a somewhat ungraceful lope in his step. With a plaid shirt and jeans, it’s hard to believe that he’s a dancer just by looking at him. As he enters Apartment 12, leaving the door unlocked, my heart speeds up. He looks so unhappy.

            I approach the door, my heart thrumming in my ears. Should I knock? Should I sneak in? The possibilities race around in my mind, but as I step up on the doormat, the door swings open again. Arthur stares blankly at me for a moment, completely baffled.

            “What are _you_ doing here?” he asks, with less anger and more confusion in his voice.

            “I—I just, er, I was just—”

            “God, just come in already if you’re hungry. How poor are you?”

            I am about to open my mouth to refute his statement, before I realize that this is an excellent opportunity. So I don’t say anything and step inside.

            “I’m going to get my mail. Don’t touch anything.”

            The door shuts behind him. I immediately run and find his bedroom.

            It’s not what I was expecting.

            Arthur has a lot of nice things, which I was ready for, but I thought that being raised in a rich family meant that you knew how to organize. His floor is scattered with clothing, his bed unmade, and the whole place stinks of his intoxicating cologne. I go into the kitchen and find much the same situation. Dishes are piled high in the sink.

            “I don’t really have a plate to put your food on,” he says as he re-enters the flat, throwing his mail on the couch. I turn to look at him, biting my lip. “Do you ever wash your dishes?” I ask, feeling like I might regret it. Arthur isn’t the kind of person that turns red when they’re frustrated, but anger clouds his expression. “I invited you in to give you food because you’re so damn skinny and you’re _complaining_? Did you grow up in a stable?”

            I flush, holding up my hands. “I just… I thought…”

            He stops, looking away from me. The muscles in his throat contract as he swallows, making me blush harder, but he doesn’t notice. “Look, we had maids at home, okay? Morgana did it before but now she’s mad at me.”

            “Why is she mad at you?”

            “That’s none of your business, pretty boy.”

            Silence.

            “Do you… Do you want any help?

            He looks at me, and it makes me want to grab his stupid plaid shirt and kiss him. “You want to do that in exchange for food?”

            I shrug. He taps his fingers on the table in thought for a moment. “Merlin the maid. Has a nice ring to it.”

            I don’t say anything, eyeing the work in front of me.

            “Well, what do you want to eat? I can’t believe you stalked me just for food.”

            “I didn’t—”

            “Shut up. What do you want?”

            “What do you have?”

            “I don’t… I don’t have anything. I can’t cook. I order stuff.”

            “Oh.”

            At this moment, the door opens again. Morgana stumbles in, looking even more flustered and unhappy than Arthur did. “Arthur, I wanted to—”

            As she sees me, her expression quickly changes. “What is _he_ doing here?”

            It amazes me how similar they can sound.

            Arthur looks from her to me, his mouth partially open in surprise. He takes a few steps towards her, holding his hands out. “Morgana, this has nothing to do with—”

            “I see,” she says, her jaw tightening as her eyes spring with tears. I want to say something, but I know that I will just make the situation worse.

            “I hope you two will be happy,” she says, turning around and stalking out, slamming the door behind her. Arthur turns around, grabbing fistfuls of his own hair in exasperation. I don’t say anything as he slowly returns to the kitchen running his hands down his face and sighing. It is hardly the reaction I expected from him. I had prepared myself for a throttling for causing a fight between him and his “one year” girlfriend.

            “Should I go?” I ask eventually.

            “That would probably be best,”

            As I pass him, he reaches out and grabs my arm in a vice-like grip.

            “Come back tomorrow?”

            I stare at him, and I can’t help the smile spreading across my face. “Yeah. Sure.”

            He nods. As soon as I am out of the complex, I do a small pirouette and pump my fist in the air.


	3. Pas de Deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly recommend that you watch Merlin and Arthur's dance!  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lt3MFr5NSrw

Arthur’s kitchen is spotless now. The dishes are stacked neatly in the cupboards. The floor has been mopped. The counter is sparkling. The curtains are thrown open to let light shine in upon my work. I collapse on the couch, my muscles complaining from the hours of dance practice and housework. I lie there for a few moments, thinking all the while that I should get up and do _something_ , but even as the thoughts swirl around in my head, I find myself slipping into unconsciousness.

When I wake up, it is to loud swearing from the kitchen. I move my arms to stretch and am surprised to find that I’m under a heavy blanket. It smells like Arthur. Befuddled, I push it aside and stand up groggily, stumbling in the direction of the kitchen.

“Arthur?”

“Go to hell!”

The pot on the stove is flooding with hot bubbles. The burner hisses loudly as water hits it, and the whole place smells like smoke. I rush over and move the pot to a different burner, blowing on it until it’s not boiling over, and turn the dial down. Then I look back at Arthur. His voice betrays his embarrassment.

“I was just going to make some spaghetti, alright? I thought I could follow the instructions on the package, but I guess I was wrong…”

I look back at the pot, still bubbling away with the pasta in the bottom.

“You already stirred it in,” I say encouragingly. “We can still salvage it.”

Arthur looks incredulously at me, but nevertheless follows my instructions until the spaghetti is sitting safely in a strainer in the sink.

“The most important thing when you’re cooking is not to panic,” I chime, stirring butter into the noodles. The sunlight makes me feel cheerier than I have for the last week.

“I wasn’t panicking,” says Arthur defiantly. “How do you know these things, anyway? What are you, a housewife?”

“I’m the only child of a single mother,” I say quietly, putting my fork down and turning away to take up the jar of sauce on the counter.

“Oh.” Arthur is silent for some time. The only sound is of the people in the apartment above fighting. “My mum’s dead,” he says softly.

I set the jar back down, not looking at him. “Really?”

“I wouldn’t just say that,” he says angrily.

“I didn’t—I just—”

“Forget it.”

I turn around, and his expression is like a knife in my chest. His brow is knit up and the muscles in his jaw and neck contract from the effort of trying to keep a calm countenance, but his eyes are like a child’s. Without thinking, I reach out and grab his hand. He takes a sharp breath in through his nose, looking down at our twined fingers. A few seconds tick by, blank except for the screaming above us. I can feel my cheeks growing redder and redder. I finally let go, but he holds my hand tightly, squeezing until I feel like my bones might crack. He releases his grip and turns his back to me.

“Get some plates out so we can eat,” he says loudly. Taking deep breaths to soothe the pounding of my heart, I do as he says. The meal passes in silence and I find that I can’t bring myself to eat very much. He scarfs down a few bits and then leaves his plate untouched. I package up the rest of the spaghetti and store it in the refrigerator, wash our dishes, and then put on my jacket to leave. Before I can make it to the door, I hear Arthur behind me.

“Merlin.”

I can’t make myself turn to face him, but I hover with my hand on the doorknob, trying my best not to start shaking. Is he angry?

            “I need you to practice my _Petite Mort_ duet with me.”

            I pause. “What?”

            “None of the damn girls will talk to me right now. They wouldn’t help me. I’ve seen you practicing Morgana’s part.”

            “Er, I don’t—”

            “I already reserved studio time.”

            “…Fine. When?”

            “Tomorrow night at 10:00.”

            I nod, standing still for a few seconds before leaving. I am halfway down the street to my apartment before I realize I am shaking from head to foot.

-

            When I open the door to the studio the next night, Arthur is already there, dressed and ready to dance. I am sore from the day’s practice, but seeing the way that Morgana and the other girls looked at Arthur during the day almost makes me feel sorry for him. I set my bag down by the stereo and do a quick set of jumps to get my blood flowing. Arthur ignores me until I am finished, and then clears his throat. He stands up, stretching his shoulders, and approaches the stereo.

            “I thought I would just go through the whole thing first and then go back over whatever needs fixing.”

            I nod, taking a few deep breaths as I get into position. I glance out the large windows at the glowing cityscape in the darkness below before the music starts as my cue, and I slip into the rise and fall of the dance.

When I make contact with Arthur, he catches me as though I am as light as a feather. I press myself against him as he leans into the phrase. In the short breaks when he swings me around his body, I allow my focus to slip and it occurs to me that I have never danced a pas de deux quite like this before. Only a few lines in, I can feel my cheeks practically glowing. I try to focus on the choreography, but as I stare at Arthur, my heart is skipping. His legs are spread as he slowly lets me down onto him, his back arched in preparation for me to meet him.

His eyes widen as though to remind me to move, and I reach down, robotically, and draw him halfheartedly upwards. As we roll away from each other, I hear him sigh frustratedly, but he grips my hand and we continue. Despite stutters and memory slips, there are stretches of movement almost like liquid, where the sound of our matched breaths and footsteps echoes back to us in the quiet studio. I can’t keep myself from relishing the intimacy of the dance. This is closer than I have ever been to Arthur.

The music ends on a plaintive phrase as he takes a few steps away from our final movement and then stops.

“That was… That was good. Some of it was really bad but it was fine,” he is saying. I find myself watching his mouth as he talks, and I do not realize he has stopped until his lips form the word “What?”

I look up at him, startled. I pause, shaking my head a little, and shrug. He glares at me momentarily before turning back to the stereo.

We start again, at the beginning. This time, I focus on remembering the movements, but once more as he lets me down on his hips, I cringe with embarrassment. He pushes my hands away, shaking his head.

“No, no, no! That’s not the movement, Merlin. Didn’t you ever learn it in all those times you practiced Morgana’s part?”

My face is red. “Of course I learned it!”

“Then why don’t you do it?”

“It’s just kind of… you know…”

“Merlin.” Arthur puts his hand on my shoulder. “What do you think _Petite Mort_ means?”

“Uh…” I think back to my two years of French. “’Little Death’, right?”

“Yes, but you’re missing the point,” says Arthur. He leans in close to me and whispers. “It’s a euphemism for an orgasm, dumbass.”

I feel my face growing even redder if that were possible, and Arthur stands up. “You can’t just waltz into the company and expect them to spoon-feed you every little thing. Do your research.”

I glare at him. He reaches forward, grabbing my leg, and pulls it up into position. “From this part.”

I knit my brow, drawing my body into proper posture. I go through the phrase almost furiously, and when Arthur is on the floor this time, I take the deepest plié my heels will allow and pull his hips up roughly. I hear his breath hitch as we complete the movement, and when he grips my hand and we draw away from each other, I can’t help smirking until our eyes meet again.

He lets go, turning away and folding his arms. I let my head fall back for a moment, taking in a deep breath to clear the sudden fog in my head. Arthur’s eyes tell stories like no book I have ever read.

“One more time, that same phrase,” I hear him say quietly. I stand, extending my leg. I can practically hear the air crackling as we dance this time. When we reach the phrase, however, Arthur’s hand slips on the floor and he falls back. I tumble on top of him as he drops my leg. We clatter painfully to the ground. I sit up a little, shaking my head, before I realize my weight on Arthur. I make to get up, but as I try, his arms are around me. I give a small cry as he pulls me down.

I catch myself with my arms braced against the floor, my head directly above his. His face shows a half-disguised look uncharacteristic of the Arthur I know. A mix of pain and adoration. It dawns on me slowly that he is not moving, not trying to get up, only waiting. I allow myself to relax against him, and he takes my face in his hands. When he draws me down to kiss him, I do not resist.

The familiar smell of dancer’s sweat lingers in my nostrils as my heart pounds faster and faster. He really is a good kisser. The sound of our breaths grows louder in the silent studio. His hands wind into my tank top. He rolls over, pinning me against the polished wood floors. I hook my legs around his hips and he gathers me up against him, desperately.

Just as suddenly as it began, our kiss breaks. Arthur lets out a breath through his nose before drawing away from me. He stands, running a hand through his hair and not looking at me. He is breathing hard.

“Good. That’s fine for now.”

My chest heaving, I simply nod, standing rather unsteadily. I pull my bag over my shoulder as I head for the door. He touches my arm as I pass him, sliding his hand down to catch mine. Our fingers twine for a moment, and he says quietly, “I need you to help me clean my flat tomorrow afternoon.”

 

 


	4. The Gentle Prince

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, everyone! I finally updated. I hope you like it ;)

            The next morning, I rush into technique class, barely on time. Arthur isn’t there. I watch the clock nervously as we begin—he is always ten minutes early—but he never comes. I wander the halls looking for him after class. When he still isn’t there for rehearsal later on, the instructor pulls me out of my own class to have me dance Arthur’s part. As I dance, he folds his arms and nods in approval after strings of movement. Morgana, however, is rigid as she dances. She looks so livid that I am glad when the bell rings before it comes time for our duet.

            When Arthur is still missing from our workshops and the time when I would ordinarily practice with him, I find myself trying to dance off my nervousness. I go harshly through my combinations alone in the studio, overextending myself and falling off balance. The cold _smack_ of the wood floors as I fall is somehow satisfying to me, though I can see bruises forming already.

After slamming onto my prop sword for the fourth time, I realize that I am doing myself more harm than good. My hands shake as I zip up my duffel bag, and I only take the time to check myself in the mirror before hurrying to Arthur’s flat.

            I am shaking by the time I reach Number 12. I’m not sure if it’s from cold or anticipation. I pause as I stand on his doormat. What if he doesn’t answer? Should I walk in? Should I try to call him? My worries are allayed, however, as the door handle turns in response to my soft knocking. My heart leaps to my mouth as Arthur’s face appears. Neither of us speak and his expression reveals nothing as he steps aside to let me in. He shuts the door behind me. All of the lights are off. The curtains in both the living room and the kitchen are closed.

            “Merlin.”

            I close my eyes. His voice is thick and low as he seizes me. Hungrily, he kisses my shoulders. I let my head fall to the side and his mouth trails up behind my ear.

            “Why weren’t you there today?” I ask.

            “I didn’t want to see Morgana.”

            I sigh. “You’ll have to face her at some point.”

            He lets go of me, and I hear the door’s lock click behind me before his hands wind around my waist, turning me to face him. His brow furrows as he looks into my eyes. “I just… I had to make sure that…”

            “That what?” I know I am grinning stupidly now, but I can’t help it.

            He hesitates. “You know, that we’re…” His brow knits further.

            “That we’re hopelessly in love?”

            He rolls his eyes, but I can see that he is suppressing a smile. “Speak for yourself.”

            I hit his chest, but he reaches down, scooping my legs out from under me and lifting me up like a bride by her groom. I make a sound of surprise.

            “Where are you taking me, O prince?” I laugh, trying to hide my excitement.

            He hesitates, glancing at the couch. “I—I’m not sure.”

“Then why are you carrying me like we’re a married couple going to their wedding night?”

            I feel his heart speed up. “I—er, what? I didn’t—I mean, you know I was just—”

            “Shh.” I rest my head against him. He hesitates for a moment before he squares his shoulders and begins carrying me in the direction of his bedroom.

            “I’m not going to shag you,” he says suddenly as he closes the door behind us with his foot.

            “What?”

            “I said I’m not going to shag you, Merlin.” He sets me down on his bed. “You’re a virgin, right?”

            I let out a sound of exasperation. “God, Arthur, could you be any more polite?”

            He throws his hands up. “I was just—”

            “ _Yes_ , I’m a virgin, you twat.”

            “Well, so am I.”

            “…What?”

            “Have you gone deaf?”

            “No, I just thought you and Morgana—”

            “I never even let her in my bedroom,” he says, and swallows hard.

            I snort. “That would explain a few things.” He glares at me, but I take his hand, lacing my fingers with his. “Why me?”

            He looks away. “I… I haven’t ever wanted anybody in my bed just to get their pants off. I…” He lets out a breath of frustration. “It sounds so idiotic. I wanted somebody to be gentle with. I wanted somebody to love me. I want _you_ to love me. I want you to be here when I fall asleep and when I wake up. I want…” He looks back at me, hesitating, his face tight.

I reach up and take his shoulders, pulling him downward. “Then you’d better get in here with me so that you can have all that.”

            For a long time, we don’t speak. Arthur is a different person now, trembling. He looks at me like he thinks I might suddenly disappear. His body presses me down into the bed as he kisses me, again and again. He pushes his hands up under my shirt. His breathing is unsteady.

            “Shh.” I run my fingers through his hair.

            “Merlin…”

            He is crying.

            “Arthur?”

            He won’t look at me, instead burying his face in my neck. “I’ve never felt this stupid about anyone.” His fingers wind into my shirt.

I close my eyes. “Neither have I.”

He keeps going, desperate. “You don’t understand. This isn’t just a crush. I feel drawn to you. Like we’re supposed to be together. I haven’t even known you two months and I… I would die for you.”

“I do understand. I feel the same way.”

He pulls back to look at me. The tears shining in his blue eyes make my heart skip. “Promise me. Promise me you’re telling the truth.”

I stroke the hair away from his face.

            “I promise.”

            His face twists up and he goes to hide in the crook of my neck again. “Don’t leave me,” he pleads.

            “You asshole,” I say, wrapping my arms around him. “Didn’t I just promise that I love you more than life?”

            He doesn’t respond, only shaky breathing against my skin. I sigh and pull the covers over us both. “What happened to you? You were never like this before.” I kiss his head.

            “I trust you,” he says.

            “What, you cry around people you trust? Does that mean you’re always crying around your family?” I joke.

            He sits up, staring at me. “I would never let my father see me like this.”

            His sudden seriousness scares me. “Arthur?”

            His posture slumps and he looks down, running a hand over my stomach. “Haven’t you heard of Pendragon Industries? The electrical company?”

            “I kind of grew up on a farm. We had the cheapest electricity you could get.”

            He shakes his head. “My father owns it. It’s one of the biggest industries in the country. He expected me to take it over. When I told him I wanted to be a dancer… He nearly disowned me.”

            “That’s why you were so obsessed with your position in the company.”

            “I have to be the best. I have to, or he’ll take me out of the conservatory.”

            I stroke his face. “Isn’t he coming to the performance next week? He’ll see you. He’ll see how amazing you are.”

            He looks down, fiddling with the bottom of my shirt. “Morgana.”

            I roll my eyes. “Come on, Arthur. That’s just unprofessional if you won’t dance with her because of some drama.”

            “It’s not me,” he bursts out. “She called me last night. She said that she won’t dance with me if I don’t come back to her.”

            Silence. My fingers are going numb again. “What are you going to do? Her understudy dropped out last week.”

            He sighs. “It’s just one duet. I’m going to ask the instructor if you can take her place. If he knows what’s happening, he can’t refuse. Morgana would rather take the number out than dance with you.”

            More silence. “You mean I would be in the show.”

            “Yes.”

            I draw circles on his temples with my thumbs. I can feel his heart beating hard and fast. “You know I will do anything for you.”

            “Thank God,” he says, and smashes my lips with his own. I hiss in pain, but his hands find their way up my shirt again and it quickly melts into a sound of pleasure. His kiss deepens and he shoves my shirt up around my chest, unable to draw away long enough to strip it off. His fingers drag across my skin. I pull at his shirt, straining to get him closer. My every movement both simultaneously satisfies and deepens his fathomless need, this I know. It seems to me that we _fit_ together, somehow. My skin feels like sparks as I turn my head to get a better angle for our kiss. I buck my hips, chasing a smothered gasp from his mouth.

            “I’m not going to shag you,” he says throatily, his hands kneading me like clay.

            “The more you say that, the more I think you’re lying,” I breathe.

            “I’m _not_ ,” he says emphatically, drawing back. He shakes his head as he pulls my shirt over my head, tossing it over the side of the bed. “You little slut.”

I grin. “Just for you.”

He chuckles, running his hand up and down my side. I expect him to fall on me again, but he just sits there, stroking me. “You’re tired.”

It startles me to realize that he is right. It was dark outside before I even got here, and I realize how much my muscles have been protesting this whole time.

“Tomorrow is Sunday,” I say as he lowers himself onto me again, this time gently, embracing me. His warmth is enough to make my head hazy. His kisses on my jaw make me positively dizzy.

“Right,” he says. “Tomorrow is Sunday, so we will have all day together.”

“That sounds nice,” I reply, closing my eyes. The sound of him sucking and kissing my bruised skin, gently, accompanies me as I slide out of consciousness.

 


End file.
